I hope it hasn't been said earlier but I suppose it has. Wes Anderson isn't the name of a person. It's the name of a feeling. An aesthetic. A phenomenon. A style. It's in the same paradigm as avant-garde or fin-de-siecle or dadaism. It has a whole colour theory to it. Its own version of the senses. And Wes is enough—you needn't wait for one to complete the name before you go, 'Aah, that', your mind quickly resetting itself of its own accord like it does when a childhood friend arrives and starts talking in Morse. Soon enough, you wake up surrounded by Mendl's Bakery Boxes, the lighthouse from The Grand Budapest Hotel visible from your train window.







